


Seasons

by joely_jo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 10:09:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2305910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joely_jo/pseuds/joely_jo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote this for the Cat x Ned week on tumblr, having misinterpreted the prompts. As a result, only the first two 'seasons' were posted to that group. The other two are here now, and together they make up four seasons in the marriage of Catelyn and Ned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spring

Spring

 

There are bluebells on the ground in the Godswood. She finds them one morning as she skirts the edges of the dark, forbidding wood that fills the heart of Winterfell. They are a carpet of blue in the dimness, dappled with pale morning light, and she stops and stares, transfixed for a moment by the simple beauty.

She has been here nearly a year now and while she cannot yet call it home, it is not the cold and unwelcoming place it was that day she dismounted from her horse and became Lady Stark of Winterfell. Something about it has warmed.

Slowly, she steps amid the blue stems, listening to the chorus of birds all around her. _Winter is coming_ say the Stark words, yet right now it feels like spring is here.

She takes her time before she returns to the Great Keep, taking a perambulating route through the grounds until her skirts are dark with dew and her feet are wet. Mikken nods to her and wishes her good morning as she passes his forge and it is only then that she realises how late the hour is. Breakfast will be served in the Great Hall and her lord husband will be waiting for her, so she goes quickly to her rooms to change. So hurried is she that at first she does not see the simple drinking cup filled with bluebells upon her dresser.

Ned has been here, she thinks, and smiles.


	2. Summer

Summer

 

The children are chasing one another in the courtyard, their laughter surging over the sounds of Mikken at his forge. Arya is after Bran, a long pheasant feather grasped in her fist to tickle him under the chin if she catches him, and Robb stands by the stack of empty grain barrels hiding a long stick behind his back. Catelyn knows that he means to trip his sister up as she comes charging past but as she opens her mouth to call down for everyone to be careful, she feels a familiar pair of hands fall around her waist.

“Shh, Cat, let them play.”

“Ned, if Arya falls--” she begins, but he cuts her off with a low chuff of indrawn breath.  

“If she falls, she will graze her knees and she may cry, but she will learn to look out for her brother when she’s committing mischief.”

There is nothing to say to that. Ned laughs. “My lady has a lack of words!” he declares and receives an elbow in his belly for his teasing. “You worry too much for them. They are safe and it is summer and we should leave them to their games.”

She feels his lips on her neck, softly, softly, and the touch of his beard against her skin. It is not yet noon and they are a long way from their beds, but suddenly she finds her head full of haze.

The sun is full and warm on her face and there are the feathery seeds from dandelions drifting on the breeze. With a squeal, Arya spots the outstretched stick and sidesteps, turning to stick her tongue out at her brother before barrelling off again. It is summer, she tells herself, and leans up to kiss her Ned. There is no need for worry.


	3. Autumn

Autumn

 

There is a chill in the air and a gathering breeze. Above his head, the northern sky is the colour of iron, heavy and ponderous with impending rain. This morning there had been a light snow on the ground, and in sheltered places there is still a covering. Ned guides his horse slowly through the marshy ground that has developed along the western fringe of the King’s Road. Jory and a few other members of the household guard follow behind him, between them carrying the carcasses of a brace of deer.

Robert is out of sight, riding some way behind the Winterfell group, but Ned can hear his roaring laugh from time to time. It is not yet sundown but no doubt his friend has started on the wine already. There will be another feast this evening, the third in as many days, and there will be singing and dancing and merrymaking, but Ned feels in no mood for a celebration. He knows that his answer is expected on the morrow.

And so Ned must make the impossible decision, a decision that will surely change the path of life forever. The mere thought of it is feels like a sword in the back.  

So instead he dreams, of warm arms and the peace of early morning abed until they finally ride through the Hunter’s Gate and into the castle. A few faces are there to greet them, but it is one face that draws him, her hair a beacon amid the greyness. Everyone is talking and shouting, and cheers ring out when the carcasses are held aloft, but she is simply standing, quiet and still, and her smile is _home_. As he watches, the wind lifts the loose tendrils of her hair and flips them across her face, making her reach up to palm them away. Rickon appears, then, his little figure half hidden by her billowing skirts, and suddenly Ned is gripped by an appalling sense of doom, like he is staring into the dark mouth of some vile beast, and he feels his heart fall away a moment.

_To leave all this…_

Shaken, he dismounts and turns to make his way toward them, wanting the simple comfort of an embrace, but a gust of wind funnels hard through the courtyard and he closes his eyes against the force of it. When it eases and he looks again, the scene has changed – Rickon is gone and in his place stands the Queen, her cold green eyes fixed upon him.   


	4. Winter

Winter

 

He knows where he is. He has been here before, mayhaps a handful of times, yet somehow the rooms seem unfamiliar, changed. It disconcerts him, but then, on a wall, he notices that there is a tapestry he remembers  – silvery fish swimming in blue-green river – though even that is not quite right. The colours are a little less vibrant, muted almost.

Through the hallways he goes and up a winding stair to the topmost floor of a tower. Some people he does not know pass him but no words are spoken and the mood seems sombre and expectant, like the intake of breath before a sigh.

He finds her in a room he almost recognises. Outside there is a cold wind blowing and it rattles the latches on the diamond-paned windows, whistling as it gusts. All around him it is smoky, indistinct, as if he is looking through dirty glass. She seems a league or more away, yet she is but an arm’s length from him. She is different, thinner, harder and weary beyond measure, nothing at all like the bright and youthful girl he married all those years ago. Even her hair seems dulled.

A sigh builds within her and releases, loud in the quiet room. She sits, with head bowed, and covers her face with her hands. When her back begins to tremble, he knows she is crying.

“Oh, Ned.” Her voice is muffled.

He wants to respond, to tell her that he is here just as he has always been, whatever her ill might be, but the words stick in his throat and do not come out.

So instead, he reaches out and lays a hand gently on her back. Beneath his touch, he can feel the tension knotted hard in her shoulders. She shivers and he withdraws.

“Cat,” he says.

She looks directly at him, her beautiful blue eyes rimmed red from tears, unseeing. A wave of hopelessness washes over him. She sighs again and bends her head to murmur a soft prayer under her breath.

 _What has made you like this, my love,_ he thinks, then as he follows the path of her gaze, he realises.


End file.
